


4 ½ Weddings and a Funeral

by hazel_wand



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-12
Updated: 2013-12-12
Packaged: 2018-01-03 13:45:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1071151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hazel_wand/pseuds/hazel_wand
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry’s quite engaging; Draco’s otherwise engaged.</p>
            </blockquote>





	4 ½ Weddings and a Funeral

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dustmouth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dustmouth/gifts).



> **Content/Enticements:** Tune in for champagne drinking, dress robes, a seriously bad haircut, overly squiggly writing on wedding invitations and the odd avian ice-sculpture.  
>  **Author's Notes:** As the title and summary may suggest, this story is inspired by the film 4 Weddings and a Funeral. If you haven’t watched the film this will still make sense, but I urge you to watch it anyway! Thank you so much to the mods for being patient while I asked for more time, and for organising this wonderful fest. Also thanks to my lovely friend and awesome beta K, for whom this was a first foray into the world of H/D. Dustmouth, I loved your prompts. A lot of them ended up abandoned in one of the three early stories I started to write for this fest (H/D retelling of Emma, anyone?) but I hope the feel of what you asked for is there.

1\. 

“Shit!”

Harry hits the ground running – he doesn’t have time to be disoriented after Apparating these days. “Shit, crap, rubbish, bollocks.”

Eloise looks up from her desk. “Having a good day, are we?”

Harry grabs for his Auror Dress Robes – they’re not what he was planning on wearing but at least they’re smart and, more importantly, _here_. They’ll have to do. 

“I’m sodding late,” he says, as he pulls the robes over his head and tries to fight his way through to the other side. He casts a quick – and largely ineffectual - spell to iron out some of the wrinkles, and as an afterthought turns the scarlet sash yellow, remembering how Luna always wore yellow to weddings for luck.

Eloise looks at the clock and tuts. “Sodding late indeed,” she says. “Why on earth didn’t you take the whole day off, like Ron did?”

“Because you’d miss me too much,” Harry mutters absently, rootling around in his desk for his present. “Bloody hell! _Accio_ present.”

A package wrapped in bright yellow paper zooms smartly into his hand, alongside something red and lacy, which Harry assumes Peters in the next cubicle is planning on giving to his wife – or mistress. He swats the underwear in Eloise’s direction. She hooks it with the end of her wand and eyes it with distaste. “Synthetic,” she sniffs.

“Right, I’m off,” Harry says. “Oh, and tell Dawlish that I’ve left him a present in the holding cell.”

“I’m sure he’ll be delighted,” Eloise mutters. She glances up from the red panties. “Harry –“

But Harry has already spun on his heel, and doesn’t make out the end of her sentence as he whirls away towards whichever godforsaken forest Luna has chosen to get married in.

*

The forest is a riot of russet, browns and golds. An October breeze stirs the dried leaves, sending them skittering about underfoot. Harry arrives just in time to walk the bride down the aisle. Which is unfortunate, really, as he isn’t supposed to be giving her away. The guests have already taken their seats in the small clearing, prudently covered by some strong weather charms. Luna and her father are standing a few feet away, shielded from view by some trees. Harry thinks he’s just about got away with it until Luna steps out and takes his hand.

His first thought is – well, actually, his first thought is that he’s bloody late, but his _second_ thought is that she looks beautiful. She is wearing a long, dark-golden gown, which coordinates with the autumn colours all around them. Her hair is left loose but it is brighter and thicker than usual. Looking closely, Harry can see that small, yellow flowers have been woven into the strands of hair. He can’t help but notice that she is wearing yellow dangly earrings too, which look rather like pineapples. However, overall the effect is quite lovely.

“You look beautiful, Luna,” he says. He’s glad he can say it truthfully because he and Luna make a habit of being truthful to one another, which leaves Harry often in the tricky position of having to decide which parts of the truth to leave out.

Luna steps forward, her hands outstretched. “Harry! I’m so glad you’re here.”

Harry immediately feels ten times worse for being late. “I’m sorry I didn’t get here sooner. Something came up at work.”

She waves off his excuse. “I’m just happy you’re here now,” she says. “Daddy and I were just about to go – you can join us.”

She offers him an arm, expectantly. 

Harry tries frantically to work out how to say no. He can’t walk Luna down the aisle – he isn’t her dad. He looks towards Mr Lovegood for support. Mr Lovegood is standing a few feet away from his daughter, wearing a set of violently-yellow robes that make his skin look sallow and unhealthy. However, he is beaming from ear to ear, looking at Luna with an expression that is a mixture of pride and awe and love, and which Harry finds he has to look away from.

“Luna – I don’t want to intrude,” Harry stammers. “I’ll just sneak in at the back.”

Luna gives him one of her serene, infuriating smiles. “Nonsense, Harry. You’re my friend and you’re where I want you to be. Your timing is perfect.” She takes Harry’s arm in hers.

“But – “

“Don’t argue, dear boy,” Mr Lovegood adds, as he takes Luna’s other arm. “It never works with my Luna.”

Just then, music fills the glade. Harry looks around for the source, but can’t see it. It is light and gentle, with a slightly melancholy air to it, not unlike Fawkes’ Phoenix song. The guests stand, and Luna squeezes Harry’s arm.

“Are you ready?” she asks him, for all the world as though _he_ were the one getting married. He manages a smile, which probably looks more like a grimace, and they set off down the makeshift aisle. Harry can feel his cheeks burning as he feels the eyes of wedding guests boring into him. Beside him, Luna radiates calm. Harry doesn’t dare look around to find Ron and Hermione, who are probably wondering why in Godric’s name he’s suddenly become part of the wedding party. Instead, he ducks gratefully into the first empty seat he can find as soon as they reach the end of the aisle.

The first few minutes of the ceremony wash over him. Harry lets his heart stop racing, and gives in to the relief of being part of the crowd at last. He still has adrenaline zipping through his veins from the chase/duel/arrest, which had caused him to be late in the first place. Slowly, Harry feels himself calming. He starts to pay attention to the ceremony. Luna is standing with Rolf, her almost-husband, and the officiant, who Harry notices for the first time isn’t the same tufty old wizard who had presided over Dumbledore’s funeral and every Weasley wedding to date. Instead, Luna and Rolf are getting married by someone who has a beard that would have made Dumbledore jealous, and who appears to be wearing a teepee.

“Luna and Rolf want to celebrate their marriage as a means of bringing people together,” he was saying. “So I’d like everyone to turn to the person sitting next to them, and shake them warmly by the hand.”

There is just one other person in Harry’s row. He swivels towards him, hand outstretched. And then drops his hand. He is sitting next to Draco Malfoy.

“Malfoy,” he hisses. “What are you doing here?”

Draco Malfoy is sitting two seats away. He’s dressed in a smart set of navy robes adorned with a small yellow enamel tie pin – Harry wonders briefly how Malfoy has become acquainted with Luna’s wedding superstitions. His blond hair, darkened slightly with age, is slicked off his face. When Harry had last seen Malfoy close up, just after the war, he had been hollow-eyed and pinched. Malfoy’s face is still sharp – narrowed eyes, long, pointed nose and high cheekbones, but time has added some warmth to it, has softened its edges. Harry has the alarming thought that thirty looks good on him.

“Good lord, Potter, what are you wearing? And – is that blood on your face?” Malfoy asks. Harry wipes at his cheeks and sees a smear of blood. He flicks a wandless cleaning spell over himself.

“I just came from work,” he mutters. “More importantly, Malfoy, what are you even doing here?” 

Malfoy straightens the cuffs of his robes. “Obviously, Potter, I was invited.”

Harry’s always known that Luna was different, but this takes the biscuit. “You mean to say that Luna actually wants you at her wedding?”

Malfoy scowls at him. “Evidently,” he says. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I wish to listen to the ceremony.”

He turns, somewhat ostentatiously, back to where Luna’s minister is waving what looks like half a tree over her and Rolf’s heads.

Harry has been to quite a few weddings – the twelve years since Voldemort’s defeat has seen a boom in wizarding marriages and births. Luna’s is, unsurprisingly, the strangest one he has ever been to. After being asked to shake hands, the congregation have also had to hug the person sitting behind them (to Harry’s horror he was sitting in front of Ron’s Aunt Muriel, who had apparently been a friend of Rolf’s mother) and join in a chorus of Rolf’s favourite song, Puff the Magic Dragon.

Later, after Harry has rejoined Ron and Hermione and proceeded to get really quite drunk, he runs into Malfoy again. Malfoy is sitting on his own with his back against a tree trunk. A champagne flute hangs loosely from between his fingers, and he is watching the dancing with half-closed eyes. Harry has just released Ginny, who is an energetic dancer, back into the arms of her fiancé. Ron and Hermione are doing that horribly couply dance thing where they close their eyes and lean into each other and sway in the middle of the dancefloor, ignoring everyone else around them. Finding himself alone, Harry staggers over to Malfoy’s corner.

“You’re not dancing,” he says.

Malfoy looks up. “You are adept at stating the obvious, aren’t you, Potter?” he says.

Harry nods deeply, remembering as he does so that he is wearing one of Luna’s homemade wedding hats – shaped like a three layered cake, and prone to belching out confetti at random moments. 

“You know, I’m sorry about earlier,” he says. “Luna must have had her reasons for inviting you.”

Malfoy examines his champagne glass, realises it is empty and puts it down. “I suppose she must have done,” he says. “I have no idea what they are, though.”

“That’s often the case with Luna,” Harry says. He sits down, leaning back against the tree next to Malfoy’s. He leans his head – spinning somewhat – against the rough bark. His hat topples off as he does so, and lets out a weak cough of confetti onto the leafy ground. “So why did you come?”

Malfoy is quiet for a long time. Harry wonders if he’s fallen asleep, but when he looks over, Malfoy is tapping his fingers against his chin, looking deep in thought.

“I don’t know,” he says at length. “At least – I felt that if she had invited me, I ought to do her the courtesy of coming. It’s only polite.”

Harry can’t really recall a time when Malfoy has ever been polite – except for when he was sucking up to people like Umbridge. 

“Never knew politeness was your thing,” he says. “You can’t have had a very good evening, though. Does anyone here actually like you?”

To Harry’s surprise, Malfoy smiles at that. He has a nice smile, Harry thinks, a little blurrily.

“Politeness certainly isn’t one of your skills, is it, Potter?” Malfoy says, without bite. “And to answer your question, so far, you’re the only one here who’s said more than two words to me. And that’s only because you’re drunker than Trelawney on a Friday night.” 

Harry finds himself laughing, without quite knowing how he got there. “So what did you get them for a wedding present? I had no idea.” It had been a puzzle, trying to decide what to give Luna and Rolf. Whilst they weren’t the type of people who had everything – like Malfoy probably was – they were the type of people who didn’t seem to need or want anything.

“Napkin rings,” Malfoy says. He sounds a bit doubtful. “I wasn’t sure what would be appropriate.”

“Yeah, must be hard to think of what to give your former prisoner,” Harry says.

Malfoy glares at him. “Are you actually the biggest arsehole in Britain, Potter, or are you just a remarkably good tribute act?”

Harry feels a stab of guilt. “Sorry,” he says. He searches for a change of subject. “I wanted to give Luna and Rolf money to go travelling with, but Hermione said it would be tacky to give money as a present.”

Malfoy’s expression softens. “Granger’s showing some good breeding, then. For a Muggle born.”

Harry is still trying to work out if what Malfoy has said is rude or not, when Luna appears before them.

“Oh good,” she says, looking radiantly happy. “I did hope you two would get along.”

“What in Merlin’s name made you think that?” Harry asks her. 

Luna brushes him off. “It’s so lovely to see you here, Draco,” she says to Malfoy. “It means so much to us that you came.”

Malfoy gets to his feet – a little unsteadily, Harry notes. He bows to Luna. “Thank you very much for your invitation, Mrs Scamander. It was much appreciated. My mother was very sorry not to be able to attend.”

Luna beams at him. “Please take a slice of cake back to your mother, Draco. It’s so nice to see you having fun with Harry,” she says. “And thank you for my hair.” With a twirl, she waltzes back to the makeshift dancefloor. 

“What did she mean, thank you for her hair?” Harry asks. But Malfoy talks over him. 

“Since I’m standing,” he says, “I think I should leave. Any more sitting on the floor and these robes will be completely ruined. Good evening, Potter.”

Harry watches Malfoy’s retreating form. He replays the last ten minutes in his mind and shakes his head.

“Weird,” he mutters.

“What’s weird?” asks George, who has just staggered off the dancefloor holding three different glasses of champagne. “Actually, given whose wedding this is, never mind.”

2.

“This is bad,” Harry moans, looking at his reflection in the mirror. The glass puckers into a frown. “This isn’t _bad_ ,” the mirror said, in its usual prim voice. “It’s the worst I’ve ever seen, and I was around in the 80s, my boy.”

“That’s not helpful,” Harry snaps. 

“There’s a limit as to what I can do, dear,” the mirror says, frosting over somewhat in irritation. “There’s no lighting I can give you which will sort that mess out. You need a professional.”

Harry runs a hand through his hair again – which in no way improves the horrendousness that is his current haircut. “Bloody George and his stupid Spell your own Scissors,” he mutters. “This is hopeless.”

The mirror thaws out a bit – giving Harry another clear look at the disaster on his head. “Go and find a hairdresser,” it says firmly.

Harry sighs. That had been what he’d been trying to avoid by using George’s latest – and worst – personal grooming aid. He pulls at the uneven lengths of hair. He doesn’t think Molly will be able to help him now either. He will really have to go to an actual hairdresser, for the first time ever. Unless …

He throws some floo powder into the fire and leans into it. “Ginny?” 

Ginny’s home is large and empty. She and Serge spend most of their time in Brazil, where Ginny flies for the Amazons, the current champions of the Brazilian Quidditch League. Harry finds Ginny in the kitchen, where she is poking dubiously at the oven with her wand.

“Serge, let’s go round to Mum’s,” she calls out without looking round. “I can’t get this bloody thing to work.”

“It’s got an on button,” Harry tells her. “You press it.” Ginny gives a little shriek and jumps around.

“Bloody hell, Harry. You scared - _bloody hell_ , Harry. What’s wrong with your hair?”

Harry runs his hand through it again. “George and his stupid scissors,” he says. “Would you mind if I just shaved my head? I know it’s only two days before the wedding.”

Ginny looks at him sadly. “Well of course, Harry, if that’s what you want. I care that you’re there, not what you look like.” She pats his hand. “But do you really want to turn up to the wedding looking like that? The photos are bound to get into the papers, and the Prophet will have a field day.”

Harry sighs. “I honestly don’t care that you’re getting married, Gin. I’m happy for you two.”

“I know.” Ginny crosses her arms. “ _I_ know that, but the rest of the country just thinks of me as your ex-girlfriend. Why do you think I moved to the other side of the world?” She pushes his arm. “Don’t apologise,” she says, before Harry has even had a chance to open his mouth. “It’s the best thing I ever did, you know. But I can’t imagine you want to give the papers any grounds to think you’re upset about me getting married.”

“I hate it when you’re right,” Harry groans. “I’ll get my hair sorted out.”

Ginny’s face brightens. “Ooh, I can help you there. Serge went to a place last week. He really liked it there – he brought home their card.” She rummages about in a pile of post and comes back with a small, rectangular card. “Here,” she says. “Get yourself over to,” she consults the card, “‘The Salon’, and make sure you look dashing at the wedding. Serge’s invited some friends who I think would be perfect for you.”

“Oh, no.” Harry shakes his head. “No way – not after last time. That guy brought a _mask_. On the first date!”

Ginny rolls her eyes. “I suppose I should be flattered that you have such high standards, given that I made the cut.”

Harry leaves Ginny’s house clutching the card. He isn’t looking forward to Ginny’s wedding, if he’s honest. He likes Serge, and is glad that Ginny’s happy. However, he’s not looking forward to spending the day with everyone staring at him, wondering if he’s holding up. He wonders what Serge’s friends would be like. Since learning that he liked men, Ginny has been very keen to set him up with anyone she could find. Harry knows that she just wants him to be happy, but he finds the barrage of suitors exhausting. He’s come to the conclusion that, while he’d like to meet someone, he doesn’t want to go through the process of _meeting_ someone. 

*  
The door swings sedately closed behind him with an unnerving air of finality. Harry looks around the salon – or ‘The Salon’. Its owner has obviously made judicious use of wizarding space. The room is a good size. On one side there is a row of large wash-basins, with squishy armchairs underneath them. On the other side is a row of three similar chairs, spaced far apart. Each chair faces a large, heavy-framed mirror. 

“Hello, welcome to ‘The Salon’,” comes a chirpy, faintly familiar voice. Harry spins around and comes face to face with a dark-haired woman with an unfortunate nose. “Please take a seat and we will – Oh, Slytherin’s drawers, it’s you.”

“Hello, Pansy,” Harry says. He contemplates backing towards the exit. Coming here has obviously been a terrible mistake.

Pansy Parkinson seems to think likewise. “What have you done to your hair, Potter? It looks like a badger just made its nest and _died_ there.”

Harry takes a deep breath. He’s learnt a lot about keeping his temper since becoming an Auror. He knows that his hair is a disaster. This is not the right time to shout at Pansy Parkinson.

“I know,” he says, in a triumph of self-control. “That’s why I’m here.”

Pansy looks taken aback. “Oh,” she says. Her hand strays to her own hair, which is a glossy brown, falling over her shoulders in ringlets. “I think I will just have to call the Manager.” She turns away. “Draco!” she shrieks. “You’ll never guess what the kneazle’s dragged in!”

“Wait, what?” Harry asks. But it’s too late. Draco Malfoy is already walking into the room. He is wearing a blue button-down shirt, open at the collar, and a pair of neatly-pressed trousers. He looks relaxed, confident, in charge – at least until he sees Harry.

“Oh Merlin,” Malfoy says. “What the hell is on your head?”

Harry winces. But he remembers that Malfoy wasn’t completely horrible at Luna’s wedding. He takes a deep breath. “Hello, Malfoy. This is my hair. I’ve had a run in with some pre-spelled scissors. Can you help?”

Malfoy peers at Harry’s hair. Close up, Harry is distracted by Malfoy’s eyelashes, which are long and blond, and which cast small shadows onto his cheeks. “That’s amazing,” Malfoy murmurs. “How did the scissors manage to get every hair a different length?”

“Magic, and George’s special breed of insanity,” Harry says grimly.

Malfoy snaps his fingers and a range of gleaming steel tools zoom towards him and hover around Harry’s head like a swarm of flies. “Right then, Potter. It’s a good job I like a challenge. Pansy, could you get Mr Potter washed and ready, and then cancel my 5 o’clock appointment?” Malfoy rolls up his sleeves. “This is going to take some time.”

It is with no small feeling of dread that Harry allows Pansy to propel him towards one of the basins. The armchair he sits in is comfortable, and it zooms upwards obligingly so that his head is level with the sink.

“Let me know if the water is too hot or cold,” Pansy says in a sing-song voice, blasting Harry’s head with a stream of icy water.

“It’s fine,” Harry says, his teeth gritted. He squeezes his eyes shut as Pansy’s talon-like hands work up a lather of shampoo on his head. “Aren’t there spells for this?” he asks.

“Draco prefers the human touch,” Pansy replies. Her fingers dig into his scalp so much that Harry wonders whether she’s in fact trying to scrub his brain and not just his hair. The water, which rinses the soap from his hair is scalding hot. 

Feeling very relieved, Harry allows Pansy to deposit him in one of the chairs facing a mirror. “Please wait there for Mr Malfoy to assist you,” Pansy says merrily. “Would you like a hot or cold refreshment while you wait?”

“No,” Harry says. “Thank you.”

Pansy gives him a fake smile and flounces to the fireplace.

Harry sits on his chair, trying to avoid his own reflection, waiting for Malfoy to come over. 

“This is going to be a big job,” the mirror says to him. It has a bland, male voice; Harry finds himself missing his bossy mirror at home. “Luckily, Mr Malfoy is one of the best. You’re in safe hands.”

“Right, then, Potter. What are we doing here?” Malfoy asks. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows; Harry can see the fine hairs on his forearms. 

“Erm, if you could make it so that it doesn’t look like, well, _this_ , that’d be great,” Harry says.

Malfoy nods. “Believe me, Potter, now that you’ve presumably been seen walking into my establishment looking like _that_ , there’s no way I’m going to allow you to leave until you look presentable.” He sniffs. “It would be terribly bad for business.”

Harry wonders whether Malfoy is joking or not. He decides it doesn’t matter.

“Have you had any magical treatments used on your hair in the last twelve months?”

“Erm, no,” Harry says.

“Has your hair ever exhibited any magical properties?” Malfoy asks. “Besides the magical ability to avoid a comb.”

“Er, well, yeah. It grew overnight once when I was a child after my aunt cut it.”

Malfoy snorts. “Really? I woke up bald when I was six after having a huge argument with my mother because she wouldn’t let me cut my hair.”

“I bet you were a horror,” Harry says, as Malfoy moves briskly around him, occasionally touching a strand of hair and making little tsking sounds.

“I was a delight,” Malfoy says. “As long as I got my own way. Which, on balance, I usually did. Right, then. I’m going to start you with a Biddability Potion. You’re not allergic to Runespoor are you?”

“No,” Harry said. “What’s the Potion for?” 

Malfoy runs a comb through a section of Harry’s hair. “It’s going to force your hair to do what I tell it to do.”

Harry is reminded of the Imperius Curse and Malfoy’s aptitude for it. “It’s only for hair, right?”

Malfoy puts down his comb. “Potter, it’s a hair potion, not the Dark Arts,” he says sharply. “It’s been signed off by the Department for Experimental Spells and Potions and certified fit for human use. Would you like to see the paperwork?”

“No, no,” Harry says. “Anything that gets my hair to do what it’s told is fine by me.”

“Good.” Malfoy looks mollified. “I came up with it myself, actually.”

He Summons a small vial of purplish liquid and pours a quantity onto Harry’s head. A little shiver runs down Harry’s spine as he feels Malfoy’s fingertips massaging the potion into his scalp. 

He must have moved because Malfoy pauses. “Sorry, am I being too rough?”

“No, no,” Harry says. “It’s nice, actually.”

“Oh. Well. Thanks,” Malfoy says.

The head massage is soothing and relaxing. Harry finds himself really breathing for the first time in weeks. “So how long have you had this place?” he asks.

“Nearly a year,” Malfoy replies. “My father wasn’t best pleased that this was how I chose to use my inheritance, but my mother talked him into it.”

“What made you want to be a hairdresser?” Harry asks. “I mean, you weren’t cutting the hair off half of Slytherin without us knowing, were you?”

“Merlin, no,” Malfoy says. “You would have had a field day, I imagine.”

“Probably,” Harry admits. 

Malfoy stops rubbing Harry’s head – Harry misses the touch of his fingers at once – and sends a comb snaking through his hair.

“It was during house arrest,” he says suddenly. “None of us had wands, and I was bored out of my skull. Then I noticed that my hairline was receding a bit.”

Harry cranes his head upwards, but can’t see any evidence of a receding hairline. Which is a shame, because it would have given Ron endless pleasure.

“Anyway, I had time on my hands and plenty of money for potions ingredients, as long as they weren’t dangerous,” Malfoy says. “So I started experimenting. Once my sentence was up, I couldn’t wait to see the back of the Manor for a bit, so I went to America for a little while and trained with some hairdressers there – all those Muggle celebrities have wizarding hairdressers, you know. You don’t get your hair like Beyonce’s without some serious spellwork.”

“I’ve been to America a few times on conferences,” Harry says. “I bet they loved your posh little rich boy accent.”

He sees Malfoy incline his head in the mirror. “True,” he says. “For a while I thought I might stay. I – met someone over there. But then Father got ill and duty called. Look down for me please.”

It takes an hour of cutting, another application of Biddability Potion and a liberal layer of Restraining Wax (another of Malfoy’s creations) before Malfoy is happy. Finally, he stands back from Harry’s chair with the air of an artist unveiling their masterpiece.

“Bravo,” the mirror says, a lustful note to its tone. “What a transformation.”

“Though I say so myself, Potter, not half bad.” Malfoy dusts stray hairs off the back of Harry’s t-shirt. It’s a job which Harry is sure could have been more easily accomplished with a wand, but he thinks it must be a habit Malfoy picked up in a Muggle salon. As Malfoy’s warm hands linger on the nape of Harry’s neck and on his shoulders, he doesn’t complain.

“This is … amazing,” Harry says. He looks at himself again in the mirror. True, it’s still him, with the glasses and the scar and the long, thin face, but gone is the mop of unruly hair. His hair isn’t neat – he doesn’t think that neat would suit him after all this time – but it is clearly styled, framing his face nicely. For some reason his eyes look different, the shape of his cheekbones too. The reflection in the mirror doesn’t quite look like him – it looks like a more controlled, deliberate, _attractive_ version of himself.

“Malfoy, you’re a genius,” he breathes. Malfoy is looking smugly at their reflections in the mirror. Harry reaches up to touch the strands. Despite the amount of potion and wax that Malfoy has used, his hair feels soft and thick.

Malfoy catches Harry’s hand in his and brushes it away. “Don’t,” he says, gently. “Don’t mess with perfection, Potter.” In the mirror, Harry can see Malfoy’s eyes trained on him. The grey irises appear darker than usual, the pupils widened.

“Thanks,” Harry says. “This is much better than going to Ginny’s wedding with a bald head.”

Malfoy snorts. “Good Godric, Potter, you would not suit bald. If you notice any hair loss, come and see me.”

Harry looks at himself in the mirror again. Everything seems to be tinged pink in the reflection, and he wonders if the mirror is blushing. Suddenly, he feels brave.

“Come with me,” he says. Behind him, Malfoy stills. “Would – would you like to come to Ginny’s wedding with me?”

Malfoy flicks his wand and the collection of scissors, combs, pots and vials go zooming back into their cupboards. “What on earth makes you think I’d be welcome, Potter?”

Harry lets out a long breath, then looks up, so he meets Malfoy’s eyes in the mirror. “Because I am asking you, Malfoy. I’m not looking forward to this wedding – not least because Ginny has a load of random Brazilian men she wants to set me up with-” He sees Malfoy’s reflection start slightly at this. Harry turns in his chair so that they are face to face. “Look, I feel like we’ve changed a lot since school. And I’d like to get to know you. And I’m pretty sure that Ginny’s wedding would be a lot less horrid if I’m not there on my own.”

Malfoy is standing very still. He slowly runs his hand through his hair, exposing the faded grey scar of the Dark Mark on the underside of his forearm.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he says quietly.

“Nonsense!” Pansy shouts from the wash basins, where she is busy mauling another victim. “Of course he’ll go, Potter.”

Malfoy’s eyes flicker shut. “Woman’s got ears like a house elf,” he mutters.

“Pick him up here at 11,” Pansy says. “And don’t be late – that’s the bride’s prerogative.”

*

The wedding is sunlit – miraculous for a British spring – and cheerful. Ginny is untraditional but beautiful in her red dress, although Harry notices Malfoy’s hands twitch slightly as Ginny’s mass of red hair whips loose around her face when she dances.

And Harry, to his surprise, has a nice time. He is conscious of Malfoy’s presence by his side. Quiet, a little awkward, they seem to be waiting for something. This being a Quidditch wedding, there are broomsticks for the guests to use, and Harry finds it is actually nice to play Quidditch with Malfoy now they don’t hate each other. He is also slightly gratified to see that Malfoy is out of practice – Harry beats him easily and laughs at the disgruntled look on Malfoy’s face. 

Malfoy doesn’t even seem too fazed at coming face to face with the horde of Weasley grandchildren. Victoire, Dominique and Louis, Molly and Lucy, Rose and Hugo are all individually lovely children and Harry enjoys being Uncle Harry to the lot of them – especially to Rose and Hugo, who are both his godchildren. However, when the Weasleys get together, their collective offspring seem to form a chubby-legged, bony-elbowed mass of child, who like nothing more than to throw themselves bodily upon their favourite adults – Harry being one of their chief attractions. Malfoy nearly wets himself as Harry topples over underneath the onslaught of children, but at least he helps him up afterwards.

Harry’s friends make an effort. Ron is clearly holding himself back from making snide remarks while Hermione and Malfoy have an impassioned debate about the relatives merits of Sleekeazy’s hair potion. George encourages Malfoy to tell him exactly what was wrong with the Spell your own Scissors, and by time they are waving goodbye to Ginny and Serge, who fly off on honeymoon on their broomsticks, naturally, Malfoy has agreed to work with George on a new prototype, in exchange for George stocking some of Malfoy’s products.

“I’ve had a strangely nice time, Potter,” Malfoy says as they lean against one of the broomstick stands, watching the last of the dancers. Two of Harry’s spurned Brazilian suitors seem to have taken comfort in each other. Luna and Rolf are doing an impressive Charleston – made even more impressive as the band are playing a lazy waltz.

“Me too,” Harry says, averting his eyes as one Brazilian suitor sticks his tongue down the throat of the other. “Thank you for coming.”

“Well, you invited me,” Malfoy says. “It was only polite to accept your invitation.”

Harry smirks. “And you’re all about the politeness.”

Malfoy inclines his head. “Potter,” he says, his voice rushed and his cheeks pink. “Would you like to come back to mine for a nightcap?”

Harry feels his heart speed up. He moves closer to Malfoy, noticing the strands of blond hair, which have flopped over his forehead. Malfoy’s lips are parted, and Harry can feel the wet warmth of his breath against his cheek.

“Sure,” he says, swallowing so that he can get the words out. “It’d only be polite.”

 

3.

They’re in bed together when the owl comes. It is early on a Sunday morning, that blissful, sleepy time between waking and having to get up. Harry loves this time more than any other, because Malfoy is pressed close in a tangle of limbs and sweat and morning breath. This is the time of the morning when they can curl into each other’s heat and listen to the distant dragon-roar of cars from Muggle London and feel that nothing in the world can actually touch them.

The owl is large and noisy, hooting with self-importance as it perches on the bed frame. Malfoy rolls over. “Feed it, pay it, kill it – just make it go away,” he groans. Harry smiles to himself – he even enjoys how Malfoy is demonstrably _not_ a morning person. 

He sits up and reaches for the owl. It has a small pouch attached to its leg. Harry unties the drawstring and holds out his hand, but nothing happens.

“It’s for you,” he tells Malfoy. Malfoy lets out an inarticulate noise and tries to roll over again, so Harry grabs his hand and holds it next to the opening of the bag. A heavy cream envelope slides out. Harry peers at the swirling black handwriting for a moment, shrugs, and then burrows back down under the covers, where he discovers that Malfoy is slightly more awake than he was letting on.

Much later, when they are sitting up in bed with mugs of tea hovering obligingly at their elbows, Malfoy reaches for his letter. It isn’t a letter, it turns out, but an invitation. It’s printed on thick, cream card in a crawling black cursive which makes Harry squint when he tries to read it.

“Why does it have to be so squiggly?” he asks.

“It’s in direct proportion to how pretentious you are,” Malfoy replies. 

“Says the bloke who has a herd of white peacocks in his garden,” Harry says.

“The correct collective noun is actually a _pride_ of peacocks, Potter,” Malfoy says. “Or an ostentation. But I think I’m proving your point, aren’t I?”

He gives Harry a quick, small smile which makes Harry’s heart twist in his chest. He pushes the feeling away. He and Malfoy haven’t really discussed _feelings_ in the few months they’ve been – whatever they’ve been. Harry has the feeling that their – whatever it is, is a delicate thing. He knows that he gets on better with Malfoy than he does with most people other than Ron and Hermione. In the last few months he hasn’t felt like the odd one out, pitiable and alone. He has been happy –stupidly so. He doesn’t want to say – or feel – anything that could jeopardise that. Harry turns his attention back to the invitation.

“So who _is_ getting married?” he asks. He tries to decode the cursive script. “Do you know anyone called ‘Grabme Finearse’?”

Malfoy laughs so hard he chokes on his tea. “Daphne Greengrass, Potter, you cretin,” he says fondly. “She’s getting married to Marcus Flint.”

“Oh,” says Harry. Then, “Oh.” He barely remembers Daphne from school. He can picture a slight, blonde girl who used to follow Pansy Parkinson around and giggle breathlessly. He remembers Marcus Flint well enough, though. He remembers thinking that Flint might have been part troll. Having met several trolls since, he thinks that might have been a little unkind. To trolls. “That’s … nice,” he finishes, lamely.

Malfoy frowns down at the invitation. “I set them up, you know,” he says.

“Really? They seem like quite an odd couple – not that I know either of them well.”

Malfoy looks a little miserable. “Yes, well, I knew that Flint always had a bit of a thing for small blondes who are afraid of him.”

Harry glances at Malfoy, not sure what to say. “I’m sorry,” seems inadequate. “I’m angry for you,” seems better, and more allied to what Harry is feeling. Before he can work out what is the right thing, Malfoy visibly draws himself up. 

“It’s a good match on both sides,” he says, briskly. “The Greengrasses are a good old family, but poor as Weas- _weally_ poor church mice.”

“Good save,” Harry says.

“Thanks.” Malfoy shoots him an unrepentant smirk, all shades of the past sent lurking back to their corners. “Anyway, the Flints are all money and no breeding, so between them they should do all right.” He looks at the invitation again. “You’re invited too, you know.”

“What?”

Malfoy thrusts the invitation under his nose. “Here – Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter. Pansy will have told Daffers that we’re, you know.”

“Dating,” Harry supplies. 

“Dallying,” Malfoy agrees, catching Harry’s mouth in a quick kiss. “Will you come?”

“Well, yeah, I suppose,” Harry says. “You came to Ginny’s with me.”

“Indeed,” Malfoy says. “And I’ve been keeping Pansy in Jimmy Choos out of gratitude ever since.”

Harry smiles at him. “Okay then. Slytherin wedding it is.”

*

Despite this being his third wedding in a year, Harry feels himself becoming more and more nervous as the date approaches. This will be their first event as, well, as a couple, and for it to be amongst a throng of Slytherins, many of whom have actively hated Harry for years, is a daunting prospect. Harry marvels that Malfoy ever went with him to Ginny’s wedding, and suddenly feels a lot more fond of Pansy Parkinson. He is meeting Malfoy there, as Malfoy has to do the hair for the whole bridal party. Harry is sweaty-palmed as he walks alone from the Apparition point. The scent of flowers lies heavily on the August air. Harry casts yet another cooling charm over himself. He has bought new robes for the occasion, and despite costing half a month’s salary, they are itchy and uncomfortable. He can feel sweat prickling down his spine. Harry can see crowds of well-dressed witches and wizards milling around a large, white marquee. The marquee itself looks like an oversized Christmas cake, overly festooned with ribbons and bows and swirly bits, which Harry doesn’t have names for.

He’s so busy looking at the marquee and the assembled crowd, that Harry nearly misses Malfoy making his way towards him. 

“Salazar’s snake, that’s hideous,” Malfoy says. 

Harry can only agree – glad that Malfoy thinks it’s horrid too. The Greengrasses have certainly gone all out for Daphne’s wedding. Inside, the marquee looks as though the contents of all the Hogwarts’ greenhouses have been disgorged into it. There are ice sculptures of swans, their necks forming lovers’ hearts, on each table. Several disgruntled-looking fairies hang from the ceiling, throwing out rose petals. Harry even sees a group of house elves, each wearing wings and golden tea-towels, handing out drinks. He takes one gratefully and avoids making eye contact.

“Darling!” comes the now-familiar shriek. Harry takes an unobtrusive step back, as Pansy flings herself in their direction. “And Potter,” she adds, coldly, just in case it seemed as though she likes him. “Look, Draco,” she says, clutching at Draco’s arm and displaying her shoes. They are pointy and silver and a ridiculous choice, considering they are currently standing on grass. 

Malfoy is saved from commenting by a portly man, wearing a top-hat and tails, who stands in the middle of the marquee and coughs self-importantly. He looks like a circus ringmaster Harry remembers from one of Dudley’s tv shows.

“Please take your seats and be upstanding for the bride,” the man proclaims.

Next to Harry, Malfoy sniffs. “Well honestly, how are we expected to do both?” he says. He sounds rather like Hermione. 

Daphne walks down the aisle to the sound of syrupy harp music. She is wearing traditional white wedding robes, and her hair is piled onto her head in the style of a Grecian goddess. Her bridesmaids are wearing robes of a pale blue colour, which only suits one of them – a blonde haired girl who looks as though she could be Daphne’s sister. At the end of the aisle, Marcus Flint looks like his head has been boiled. 

The temperature of the marquee rises steadily as the ceremony goes on. Before long, Harry is surreptitiously checking his watch every 30 seconds, wriggling about in his chair like a toddler and trying to find the most comfortable position. The tufty-haired wizard is back for this wedding, and his voice is an unwelcome drone in the stifling-hot marquee. Finally, after what seems like several weeks at least, the guests follow the newlywed Marcus and Daphne out of the marquee. Harry feels a rush of euphoric relief, which reminds him of how he used to feel at the end of double Potions with Snape.

“If I ever get married,” Harry vows, as he blasts a Cooling Charm straight into his face, “It will not be in a marquee.”

Malfoy is pink-cheeked and his hairline is glistening. “My Great Aunt Lucretia was very fond of telling me that Malfoys are too well-bred to sweat,” he says. He waves his wand and his hair ruffles with the breeze of his own Charm. “Any longer and I think I would have proven her wrong.”

Harry grins at him. Being outside the marquee makes him feel alive once more – alive and free and happy to be with Malfoy, even if it is at this wedding.

“So what’s next?” he asks, ready to face anything.

Malfoy looks torn between amusement and reluctance. “Small talk,” he says. “Catch you later, Potter.”

Before Harry can voice his protest, Malfoy is gone – a slim figure heading towards a group of matronly witches. Harry looks for the nearest house elf and clutches the proffered glass of champagne like a lifebuoy.

“Potter!” Harry at least recognises the first person who comes to talk to him – it is Adrian Pucey, who played Quidditch for Slytherin at school. They chat about work and Quidditch – Pucey follows the Magpies – for a while and it isn’t too awful. Harry thinks he can do this. Then a short, sandy-haired man with a bristly moustache comes over to them. Pucey takes one look and makes his excuses, leaving Harry stranded.

“Harry Potter, what an honour you have done us with your presence,” the man blusters. He proffers a large, clammy hand. “Such a pleasure to meet you.” He reminds Harry somewhat of Uncle Vernon chatting up Mr Mason in the hope of getting a large order. “Did you enjoy the ceremony?”

“Er, yes,” Harry says. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”

The man splutters through a mouthful of champagne. “I’m Lionel Greengrass – Daphne’s father.”

Crap. Harry has obviously broken some serious Slytherin etiquette here. MrGreengrass is almost purple at this point. “I’m so sorry,” Harry says. “We’ve never been introduced.”

MrGreengrass wipes his mouth with a handkerchief. “Actually, Mr Potter, we met at the War Orphans’ Appeal last year. But I can understand that some people struggle to recall everyone they’ve met.” His tone is significantly colder. Harry looks around for an escape route and sees Malfoy coming towards them, accompanied by the blonde bridesmaid.

“Mr Greengrass,” Malfoy calls. “I was just telling Astoria how moving I found the ceremony. You must be so proud.”

“Now here’s a young chap with good manners,” Mr Greengrass says to Harry. “Mr Malfoy, what a pleasure to see you out and about. How is your father?”

Harry recognises the insincere smile on Malfoy’s face by now. “My father is better, thank you. He has so many business interests. I fear he works himself too hard overseeing it all.”

The blonde girl is still clutching Malfoy’s arm. Her eyes are the same ice-blue as her dress, and she is staring at Harry as though he has an extra head.

“Mr Potter, allow me to introduce my younger daughter, Astoria,” Mr Greengrass says. “Of course, she was at school with you, but I am sure you were too busy with other exploits to notice her.”

“Good to see you again,” Harry says to Astoria. “That’s a nice dress.”

“You’re very kind,” she says, in a tone, which suggests he is no such thing. “Draco likes it too. Father, shall I tell Perkins to call everyone to their tables?”

Mr Greengrass looks at his watch. “Yes, yes,” he says. “Do excuse us, Malfoy, Potter.” He bustles away, Astoria in tow.

“Well there’s someone I’m not going to get a Christmas card from,” Harry says. 

Malfoy shrugs. “He’s too poor to have much influence. This is all for show,” he says. “No real loss.”

Harry shakes his head, glad that this is not his world – that the people he socializes and works with are usually straightforward and valued on ability and personality, rather than money and influence. The day seems very long, stretched out before him – a minefield of Slytherin social niceties that he doesn’t understand.

“There is not enough alcohol at this wedding,” Harry tells Malfoy gravely. Malfoy raises an eyebrow. 

“I wouldn’t drink too much, “ he says. “It’s not considered very politic to over-indulge in polite society.”

“You got drunk at Ginny’s wedding – and Luna’s,” Harry points out. “Or didn’t they count as polite society?”

Malfoy lets out a huff of breath. “Ok, ok, it’s not a good idea to drink too much in this kind of old-fashioned, image-conscious society,” he says. “You’ve got to keep your wits about you.”

Later – much later, after a many-coursed meal and speeches so dull that Harry started thinking longingly of the paperwork currently gathering dust on his desk, Harry and Malfoy stand outside the hated marquee, away from the wedding guests. 

“You’re drunk,” Malfoy says, his eyes narrowed. 

Harry nods at him. “Yup.” He sneaks his hands through the opening of Malfoy’s robes and hooks his fingers into the belt-loops of his trousers. He yanks him forward, so that they are pressed together. 

“We’re not home yet.” Harry can feel Malfoy’s lips move against his own.

“How come she calls you Draco?” He doesn’t mean to say that, but the words come tumbling out. He feels Malfoy’s breath hitch.

Malfoy takes a step back and laces his fingers with Harry’s. He doesn’t ask who Harry means – there have been plenty of women and they have all called him Draco. “Well, Potter. It’s my name.”

Harry closes his eyes. Reopens them to the sight of Draco, his smart grey robes slightly askew, his lips red and parted.

“I don’t call you Draco.”

“I don’t call you Harry.”

The sound – the shape of his name from Malfoy’s - _Draco’s_ lips sends a surge coursing through Harry’s veins. He feels more awake; his thoughts feel clearer. Above them, constellations whose names Harry was always rubbish at learning sparkle like diamonds in the sky. The sound of the revelers is muted.

“I didn’t think it bothered me,” he says, honestly. “But I don’t think you’re Malfoy to me any more.”

“I don’t care what you call me.” Draco looks down at their joined hands. Looks up again. His face is half in shadow, all hollows and lines and curves. He is hard to read – so often wiped clean and devoid of emotion. 

But Harry’s learned how to get closer, how to crumple the blankness and force him to feel. It’s what makes him know that Draco is a witty, caring, passionate person. What makes him love him, if he’s honest.

Harry leans closer, his free hand sliding from Draco’s waist to his shoulder blade, pressing them body to body once more.

“Do you really mean that?” he says into Draco’s neck.

Draco laughs, a little breathlessly. “Merlin’s pants, Potter, you really are an exhibitionist, aren’t you?”

Harry draws back slightly. “I’d like you to call me Harry,” he says.

“Harry.” The word has a shiver to it.

“Draco.” It’s the answer to a question.

Clasped hands. “Let’s go home.”

 

4.

“You must have known that I was going to get married.” Draco says. He is trying to be gentle – his tone is that falsely calm one, which makes Harry want to throw things.

“Well, one day, maybe,” Harry shoots back, too angry and hurt to try to keep his voice from breaking. “But I was rather hoping that it would be to me.”

Draco looks as though he’s been slapped. He takes a step back, almost as if Harry has actually struck him. “Don’t,” he says. “Be reasonable, Harry.”

“Reasonable?” Harry’s throat is closing up and he feels that he must get the words out before speech is impossible altogether. “I’m sorry if I’m not _reasonable_ enough for you, _Malfoy_ , but the man I love is getting married to someone else, and it’s sort of _breaking my heart-_ …” His sentence dissolves into a painful sob. Draco’s face is stricken. He reaches out to Harry, then visibly changes his mind, and runs his hand through his hair instead.

“Oh God, this is horrible,” he mutters. “I – Harry, I shouldn’t have … I thought you _knew_.

“Yeah, well, it seems like I didn’t,” Harry says. “I mean – fuck, Draco, I thought we were happy.”

This is apparently the last straw. Draco’s face crumples. Harry sees tears glistening on his lashes before Draco buries his head in his hands. He watches helplessly as Draco’s shoulders shake – part of him glad that he is not the only one hurting. When Draco straightens up again, he is wearing a hard, cold _Malfoy_ expression that Harry recognises. When Draco gets scared or angry or upset, he gets mean.

“We were happy, Harry,” Draco says. “But for me, at least, it was only ever a temporary thing. I always planned to get married and have a family. I am sorry if you were under the misapprehension that this was going any further.”

“Don’t do this,” Harry says. His voice is a whisper. He can’t believe that this is happening – that they could overcome all their old prejudices to be together, and then be driven apart by a different, older set of prejudices.

“You wouldn’t understand,” Draco snaps, venom creeping into his voice. They will end this by hating each other, Harry knows. It’s inevitable and he can’t prevent it, but he can’t bear the thought of it either. “You’ve never had a family. Never known what it’s like to put someone else first.”

“I can’t believe you’re throwing that in my face,” Harry hisses – angry despite himself. “I do have a family –Ron, Hermione, the Weasleys, _you_. And I’d do anything for them. You know that.”

“No, Potter, you _don’t_ understand so just _shut up_!” Draco shouts. “You may have chosen all those people – even me – to be your family, but it’s not the same. You haven’t been brought up with the responsibility of a thousand years bearing down upon you. You haven’t lived your life knowing what’s expected of you and knowing that you have no choice in the matter.”

“Er, actually some of that sounds pretty familiar,” Harry shouts back. “Prophecy ring any bells? Some bloke called, I dunno, _Voldemort_?”

Draco squeezes his hands into tight fists. Harry can see the knuckles shining white. “I have always known that I would need to marry, Potter. Marry a woman.”

“Yeah, back then. But there are ways we could start a family down the line. Every thing’s changed, now.”

“Now, nothing has changed. I am still the last heir. I still need to get married and have children.”

Harry looks around the room – the sitting room, which was once his and is now theirs because, really, they’ve been living together for months now. He can’t remember the last time Draco spent a night at the flat above The Salon, and he hasn’t set foot in the Manor for weeks. There are Draco’s shoes under the coffee table – he’s still not used to not having house elves to tidy away his things – Draco’s favourite brand of tea on the counter. Outside the air is bitterly cold; the evening feels like an inhalation – paused, waiting, expectant. 

“So who is it?” Harry asks.

Draco folds his arms, looking past Harry out of the window. “Does it matter?”

“Not really. Tell me anyway.”

“Astoria Greengrass.”

Harry takes a moment to remember the blonde girl with the disdainful stare. He recalls Draco’s words about the Greengrasses – poor, but impeccable breeding. Anger surges through him. He feels the overwhelming urge to fight this, to sneer, to rage until he breaks Draco down and make him _see_ how ridiculous he is.

And then Draco reaches out to Harry, grasping his wrist. He bows his head.

“I’m so sorry,” he says, voice low. “I forget, sometimes, that you didn’t grow up like I did. This has been something I have always known I will have to do. I shouldn’t have let this go on for so long. I didn’t mean to – “

He breaks off, looking away. Harry twists so they are face to face again.

“Say it,” he says. 

Draco’s hand finds his, squeezing tightly. It hurts and Harry is glad.

“You know I love you,” he says. Even though it’s the first time he’s ever said it. “That doesn’t need to change. We can still see each other. I don’t expect to be married forever. A few years, a few children, an amicable divorce and a hefty pay out – it’ll all be over.”

Harry’s anger, the strange leaping feeling he’d felt when Draco said he loved him – it all morphs into something cold and hard.

“I am not waiting around for you to divorce your wife,” he says, flatly. “And I’m not going to have an affair with you once you’re married. Find someone else to mess around with.”

Draco starts. “Come on, Harry. It doesn’t have to be like this.”

Harry snatches his hand away. “You need to go now.”

 

*

The invitation is on thick card stock and the lettering is so curled as to be indecipherable. Harry takes it from the owl’s claw – personalised delivery for the Malfoy wedding, of course, and drops it onto his desk. It falls face down, and Harry sees with an extra pang that Draco has written out the invitation in his own neat handwriting on the back.

It even hurts to look at his handwriting.

The invitation curls up and disintegrates into ash, licked by the invisible flames of Harry’s furious magic.

*

It is the week before The Wedding. Harry spends more of his time at work than ever. His desk has never looked so organised, and the best thing about the Auror Department is that the cases keep on coming, and there are times when Harry has to move, fight, run, duel and there is no time in his day to _think_.

Eloise has taken to bringing him lunch and standing over him, reminiscent of Molly Weasley, while he eats it. 

“Thanks, Eloise,” he says.

She sniffs. “You’re getting skinny. No one will fancy you if you’re all skin and bone, Harry.”

“Right. True,” Harry says, having heard the same from Hermione. He doesn’t want anyone else to fancy him at the moment, so the argument holds no weight. He’s already immersing himself into the next case file when he hears Eloise’s voice, raised and shrill.

“You can’t go in there! It’s authorised persons only!”

“Goblin shit! You try stopping me, Midgen.”

He recognises the voice. Decides to ignore it.

“If you think you can just march in here, Parkinson, then you’ve got another think coming.”

“Oh, pull your wonky nose out of your arse, and tell your boss I’m here, will you.”

“I’m fairly sure he knows – you’re disrupting Auror business. I could have you arrested …”

“All right, Eloise,” Harry says, recognising a losing battle when he sees one. “Pansy, you’ve got two minutes.”

Pansy Parkinson struts into his office, looking smug. Her hair is an unfortunate shade of burgundy, which Harry knows that Draco wouldn’t have sanctioned at The Salon. She clacks up to a chair on her ever-impractical shoes.

“Darling,” she says, in a voice which could crack ice.

Harry sighs. “I really haven’t missed you,” he says – too tired and annoyed to even pretend.

Surprisingly, Pansy smiles at this. “I wish I could say the same, Potter, but a moping Draco is absolutely in-bloody-sufferable and it’s all your fault.”

“My fault!”

She sneers at him. “Yes. I don’t see why you are making such a fuss about a little arranged marriage. Draco said he made it clear that he didn’t want to end the relationship.”

Harry pinches the bridge of his nose. He exhales, slowly. “This is none of your business.”

Pansy crosses her arms, giving Harry a glimpse of her long, scarlet nails. He remembers them embedded in his scalp.

“Despite appearances, Potter, I do care about people,” she says. “He is my friend. He is upset. And most importantly he is refusing to do my hair for me.”

“Get out, Pansy,” Harry says.

“Oh shut up. Draco cares about you. I don’t know why, darling, because you seem to have the personality of a gutted Grindylow. But it’s killing him.”

“It’s no picnic for me either,” Harry says. “He’s the one getting married.”

“Yes! And you won’t even go to his wedding. He’s scared, Potter. His father is dying and Draco _knows_ that he has to show Lucius that the Malfoy line will go on. You don’t understand – it’s all Draco has been brought up to believe. Blood before anything.”

Harry runs his hand through his hair. “I know all this. I can’t pretend to understand it, but I know it’s what Draco thinks he has to do.”

Pansy looks at him with wide eyes. He’s startled to note that they’re the same brown as Ginny’s. “Please come to the wedding, Potter,” she says. Her voice is gentle. “I think he needs to see you there.”

“I’ll think about it,” he says.

Pansy seems to understand that this is as good as she’ll get. She nods, then gets out of her seat. Harry closes his eyes, hears her heels clip-clopping out of the room.

“See you later, Midgen,” she trills on her way out.

*

“I still think you’re mad, mate.”

Harry gives Ron a weak smile. “Rational decisions have never really been my thing,” he says.

On his other side, Hermione grips his arm more tightly. “Are you sure you want to do this?” she asks. “No one would blame you for leaving.”

Harry looks up at the hulking shape of the marquee, squatting on the lawn of the Manor like a great white toad.

“He’s even got a fucking marquee,” Harry says. “I hate those things.”

“Hey! We got married in a …”

“Not the time, Hermione,” Ron says, cutting her off. 

It’s clear that the Greengrasses have been given a large budget and a lot of free rein over the decorations. This time there are ice sculptures of peacocks sitting haughtily in the centre of each table. The flowers are white and plentiful. But there are touches of Draco amongst the decorations – the crisp colour scheme and the lack of dressed-up house elves for a start. Harry feels the eyes of all the wedding guests upon him and is grateful for the solid presence of Ron and Hermione on either side, shielding him from view. He wishes Luna were not travelling – he is sure she would make a comment, which would make the whole experience slightly less awful. No one comes to talk to him before the ceremony, for which he is thankful.

Suddenly he catches sight of Narcissa Malfoy taking a seat in the front row of chairs. She looks tall and thinner than he remembers, the cuffs of her robes exposing frail wrists. Lucius Malfoy is next to her, washed out in his cream robes, the pallor of his skin making him look as though all the blood has been drained from his body. 

And then he sees Draco. He is wearing dark robes – for a moment they look like school robes, and Draco looks like the boy he was at Hogwarts, but of course the robes are far finer, with a high, austere collar, made from a heavy material.

“Malfoy looks like shit,” Ron mutters. Hermione reaches across Harry to hit him.

“Well he does,” Ron hisses. “He obviously doesn’t want to do this, Harry.”

“It’s his choice,” Harry says. 

As though drawn by Harry’s voice, Draco looks around. His face is pale and composed – the blank, polite expression, which Harry used to love to wipe away. Draco’s eyes meet his. Harry feels frozen in time – his breath stops, and it feels as though his heart does too.

He can’t look away. Just then, music starts up. Astoria Greengrass steps onto the aisle. Draco now looks as though he is staring at his bride to be.

His eyes are still on Harry.

Harry remembers nothing of the ceremony. His hand stays in Hermione’s, and when it is over, when it is done, Ron shoulders a path through the swathes of well-wishers, and they make their way silently home.

 

5\. 

Snow crunches underfoot as Harry and Luna cross the grounds of Malfoy Manor. Her hand is cold and small in his.

“Is it hard for you to be back here?” she asks him. Harry chuckles mirthlessly.

“God, Luna, I should be asking you that,” he says. “You must have worse memories of this place than I do.”

Luna sidesteps a peacock, whose white feathers appear dingy and grey against the clean, crisp brightness of the snow. “I remember being rescued,” she says at last. “I remember how lovely it was with Bill and Fleur and how kind everyone was.” She looks away, towards the Manor, which looks picturesque and harmless, covered in a blanket of snow, overseeing the wintery grounds. “Most of all I remember how scared Draco was. I was scared too, but I remember thinking that he was more frightened than I was and try as he might he couldn’t hide it.”

Harry holds her hand more tightly. “You’re an amazing person, Luna,” he says, his voice thick. 

Luna smiles at him and shakes her head. “We’re all just people, Harry. And we all get scared. And we all try in different ways to hide it.”

Harry presses a kiss to her hair, and she leans in to him, her bright purple robes contrasting against his black ones. He is terrified of being here, of seeing Draco again – especially on a day like today. But at the same time, he couldn’t not have come. He couldn’t let Draco do this without him there.

The last time he was here was a year ago, to see Draco get married. Now he’s here to see Draco bury his father. This time, Pansy Parkinson did not visit to force him to come. This time, just the handwritten note Draco sent informing him of his father’s death is enough.

The Malfoy family tomb is at the far west part of the grounds, hidden from view of the house by a line of bare-armed trees. Warming Charms have been set up. The snow has melted here and the grass is green and wet. There are mourners gathered already; Harry sees many familiar faces from the Ministry and turns away from all of them. He spots Pansy Parkinson standing with Daphne Flint, who appears so thin and insubstantial that she looks as though she might melt like the snow.

Lucius Malfoy is laid out on a slab of white marble. His hands are folded across his chest, his wand clasped in his right hand. 

“I never get used to seeing dead people,” Luna whispers. “I’ve seen quite a few of them now, but it still feels so strange.”

Harry squeezes her hand. “That’s a good thing, Luna.” He’s got used to it over the years. He can look dispassionately at Lucius’s corpse and see a life not well lived, but lived with ambition and pride and – in the end – love. Draco is standing next to his father, his head bowed. Narcissa stands at his side. His arm is around her waist and she is leaning, pressed against his body. There is no sign of Astoria.

When Draco looks up, his eyes are hollow. Harry is unsure whether to go up to him or not; there are many other people paying their respects. He doesn’t want his first conversation with Draco in more than a year to be in front of an audience like this.

Luna seems to understand. “I’ll just go and give the Malfoys our sympathies,” she says. She drifts across the grass to Draco and his mother. They talk in low voices for a few moments. Both Malfoys look straight at Harry.

*  
The ceremony is short. Once the body is sealed in its tomb, the guests are invited inside for food and drinks. Narcissa goes inside the Manor, whilst Draco stands at the entrance, welcoming people into his home.

“You go ahead,” Harry says to Luna. He waits until all the guests have filed past Draco into the entrance hall of the Manor.

Draco stays at the doorway, watching. Harry takes a breath, and walks up the Manor’s steps to him.

Draco looks paler than ever close up. Blue veins are visible through the delicate skin under his eyes and at his temples. He has lost weight.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Harry says. He can’t take his eyes from Draco’s face. This is the closest they’ve been since the last fight.

“It’s good of you to come.” Draco’s voice is hoarse. “Harry.”

Harry wishes he could touch him, but isn’t sure what he can do without losing himself again. Should they shake hands? Grasp shoulders?

Draco takes a half step forward, and suddenly Harry’s arms are wrapped around him. Draco rests his forehead on Harry’s shoulder, and for a moment Harry thinks they can just stay like this, that time could be suspended around them, and it would be ok.

Draco takes a deep breath and lets it out. He straightens up. There are tear tracks on his cheeks.

“I’ve missed you,” he says. He is close enough for Harry to feel his breath against his cheek.

“I know,” Harry says. “Me too. I mean.”

Draco smiles briefly, a shadow of a smile. “I heard they’re making you Head Auror when Robards retires. Congratulations.”

Harry shrugs. “Yeah. Thanks.” He searches for the appropriate thing to say, but can’t think of anything. Words have never been his strength: he’s always been one to act first and reflect later. He knows how much the words between them matter, now, and that makes it impossible to speak. 

“Can we talk?” Draco says in a rush. 

“I thought we were talking.”

“I mean not here.” Draco looks over his shoulder. “My mother – I should go now. But, there are things I need to say.”

“Ok. Do you want to come to mine, or…?”

“Yes.” Draco’s voice is shaky. “My mother will retire early tonight. I can come round after eight.”

“All right,” Harry says. “I’ll see you then.”

*

Harry’s tidied the house about a dozen times. There have been so many cleaning spells whizzing about the place that the mirror has started to complain about its varnish being stripped off. He feels very aware that the house hasn’t changed at all since Draco practically lived there.

It’s twelve minutes past eight when the flames in the fireplace flare green.

Draco steps out and looks around him, as though seeing the room for the first time. He turns to Harry.

“It doesn’t feel that long ago,” he says, sounding awed. “It still feels the same.”

Harry wonders if he’s talking about the room or about something else.

“You said you needed to talk to me,” he says.

Draco nods. “Er, shall we sit?” he asks, still looking wrong-footed to be in Harry’s sitting room. Draco sits down on his end of the sofa. Even now, Harry feels odd sitting there, in Draco’s spot. Harry chooses a chair by the fire, which Hermione usually sits in when she’s visiting. 

“Astoria and I are getting a divorce,” Draco says, the words tumbling over one another. He clasps his fingers together. “It turns out that arranged marriages are not as easy as my mother would have had me believe.”

Harry sits very still. “Right,” he says at last. Several comments, such as, “It doesn’t help when the groom is gay,” present themselves, but he stays silent.

“I couldn’t do it,” Draco says. “I thought I would be able to put everything to one side for the good of the family, but I _couldn’t_.” He laughs sharply. “I blame you, actually. I really was happy with you, and afterwards, when I thought about what you said … “ He leans forward, towards Harry. “I’d never considered that there was any other path other than marriage – maybe times had changed enough for me to get a divorce later, but other than that, I was going to be the same as all my ancestors.”

“And now?”

“And now, I know that I can’t raise a child with Astoria. My parents loved each other. They learnt to do that and I thought that I could learn to love Astoria too – but I’ve tried and I can’t.” Draco bites his lip. Waits.

Harry’s heart is hammering in his chest. Part of him wants to throw himself at Draco. He clenches his hands on the arms of the armchair, forcing himself to stay in place.

“So what do you want from me, Draco?”

Draco gives an odd jerk of his head. “You said that you weren’t going to wait for me to get divorced.”

“I did. And I meant it.”

“Are you seeing anyone else?”

“Does it matter?”

Draco throws his arms in the air. “Well, yes! Of course it bloody matters. I screwed up, and I’m sorry, and I’ve had a _really shitty_ year, and I fucking _love_ you, and I can’t make myself stop, so if you’re not seeing any one, I –“

Harry swallows with difficulty. Every nerve in his body is tingling, screaming at him to move.

“I would really love to buy you a beer, or take you to dinner, or – there must be another rotten wedding we could go to.” Draco looks up at him. His face is hollowed and white, open and raw, full of emotions that he deliberately isn’t trying to conceal from Harry.

Harry lets out a breath. Smiles shakily. “Buy me a beer?” he says at last. “Since when do you drink beer?”

All the breath seems to go out of Draco. He sinks back onto the sofa. “A nice sauvignon, then,” he says. “I’ve got a whole wine cellar at my disposal.”

Harry gets to his feet. “No, no,” he says. “I fancy a beer.” He holds out his hand.

Draco looks up. “I could start drinking beer,” he offers. His hand clasps Harry’s, and he lets himself be pulled to his feet.

They stand shoulder to shoulder. “I am sorry, you know,” Draco says.

“I know.”

“Do you think we can go back?”

“I don’t know.”

Draco nods. Then shoots Harry a version of his old grin. “Well, Potter. Alcohol seems a good way to start finding out.”

*

6.

“Here’s another one,” Harry calls. He passes the heavy, cream-coloured envelope to Draco.

“It’s legible,” Draco says, frowning. “Can’t be one of mine.”

“It’s addressed to us both,” Harry says. “Here: Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy. They obviously know that we’re … dallying…”

“Dating,” A shared look.

“… again.”

Draco glances at him. Harry tries his best to look innocent. Draco turns back to the letter, drawing his wand across the top of the envelope to open it, placing the wand back on the desk, and pulling out the card within.

Which then grows a giant fist and bops him on the nose. Draco stumbles backwards.

“Ouch! What the …?”

Confetti bursts from the envelope next, spinning round the room like an invasion of multi-coloured wasps, until it finally forms the words: _Save the Date_.

Draco walks around the lettering to reach his wand. He vanishes the confetti.

“You knew,” he says, without too much venom.

Harry grins at him. “George warned me the other day.”

Draco rolls his eyes. “Oh Merlin. Of all the Weasleys, his is the wedding of which I am genuinely terrified.

Harry’s smile broadens. Draco is standing in their sitting room – theirs, again, with their spots on the sofa and a strange assortment of their mingled possessions strewn around it. He is looking at Harry with that half-amused, tolerating look that he has, all quirked eyebrows and twisted lips and warm eyes.

He’s his, and they both know that now.

“You’ll come, though,” he says. And it’s not a question.

Draco smiles back, then leans down and kisses the grin from Harry’s face.

“It’d only be polite.”

**Author's Note:**

> You can leave a comment here or [on Livejournal.](http://hd-erised.livejournal.com/8673.html)


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